CHAPTER 23: HIDE AND SEEK
When the gunshot resonates inside the bank, Sherlock instinctively crouches down gripping his Browning tightly in his hands and kneeling in a firing position. He sees the expression on the killer's face changing rapidly: his scornful grin is instantly replaced by a wince of pain. Kevin brings both his hands to his hip where a dark red stain spreads across his clothes. He collapses to the ground howling like a wounded beast.
Sherlock's brain takes a moment to understand what's going on. Someone has just shot Kevin. Not just someone, but the only person who would whisper to him the words 'Vatican Cameos' in a dangerous situation: John Watson. John is in the room right now. More specifically, given the angle of the shot and the origin of that whisper, he must be right behind his back.
His conclusions are confirmed when the guard quickly scans the room with his eyes and aims in his general direction. In a flash of lucidity, the detective raises his gun and shoots at the nearest light precipitating almost the whole room into the darkness.
"Dammit! Why didn't you try to hit him, instead?" John complains trudging clumsily in the dark, just a few feet away from him.
"Because I had just one bullet: had I missed, I'd have been a dead man. So, I decided to become more difficult a target," Sherlock calmly explains trying to think and take stock of the situation.
"You mean that you are completely unarmed now?" John murmurs through gritted teeth. "I thought we could overcome them."
"We still can. One of them is down and the other is blind."
"So are we, Sherlock!"
"Well then, Captain. It's time to dust off your army skills. You take care of that big guy while I free Giulia," he commands slipping away in the dark.
"Copy that," John promptly replies and crawls on the floor while his eyes search the room looking for the guard.
Sherlock slides silently next to the girl still tied to the chair; when he is just a few feet away from her, he hears her muttering something under her breath, it looks like she is reciting a sequence of numbers. "17...34...51...68..."
He touches her arm softly to wake her from her trance and she flinches in fear.
"It's alright, it's me," he whispers in a vaguely reassuring tone. "We need to get rid of these ropes and we are going to do it together, okay?" he comes within her visual range and stares into her eyes as she nods quivering visibly. "I do need your cooperation: help me find the multi-tool knife he stole from my flat," he states fiddling with her bonds in the dim light.
At the far end of the room, they hear John assaulting and disarming the guard, then getting into a fistfight with him. Giulia and Sherlock look in his direction for a second, then their eyes meet again: he can read fear and horror in her gaze, but he is not sure how to comfort her.
He is not good at it. He cannot deal with emotions; they would cloud his judgement. However, it doesn't take him his deduction skills to know that she needs him right now.
He averts his gaze searching the ground for his blade and murmurs, "Listen, I know it's hard, but I promise we will survive." He finally spots his knife and starts to cut the ropes while she ironically replies, "Sherlock, has anyone ever told you not to make promises you can't keep?"
He shrugs and smirks, "If they did, I wasn't paying attention."
He is almost finished loosening the grip around her wrists when he feels a cold object pressed against his temple. "Freeze!" Kevin's voice booms throughout the room, causing even John to stop in the middle of the fight to look at them. The killer is pointing a small handgun at Sherlock's head while pressing his other hand on his blood-dripping wound.
The detective closes his eyes and groans waiting for the bullet to pierce his brain: if that's the end, he is going to be infinitely disappointed.
"Say your prayers, Holmes," Kevin hisses fighting through the unbearable pain of his wound.
In that minuscule fraction of time, Sherlock feels as if the whole world stopped, frozen in time and space. He enters his mind palace but he must be quick: after all, he only has a split second. Still, that's more than enough to decide how he will die: he is going to take Kevin with him.
He realises that he still has his multitool knife in his hand. If he is fast enough, he could dart to his left while turning halfway around, raise his right hand and stab him right in the chest. Obviously, in the time it would take him to perform this movement, Kevin will probably react, adjust the aim and shoot him dead. But at least, he would bring him down, too. A life for a life.
The split-second has passed: Sherlock is back to reality again and smirks cruelly, "I pray that Hell truly exists because I'd love to torture you for all eternity."
He is about to leap to his death when a deafening roar erupts in the room. Everyone's head turns instinctively towards the source of the sound, and they all witness as one of the doors is torn off the hinges.
"I feel like you just stole my line. Freeze. Drop your weapon, now!" a familiar croaky voice orders Kevin.
Detective Inspector Lestrade and his police team spread out in the room guns blazing. The killer reluctantly drops the handgun and surrenders while, on the other side of the room, his guard is cuffed.
Sherlock stares wide-eyed at the scene struggling to fully comprehend what is going on. "How did you know we were here?" he mumbles dazed.
Greg turns towards him and frowns: just three seconds ago he was about to get a bullet in the head, and the first thing that crosses his brain is to inquire about police response time? Typical of him.
He answers, "John told me, over the phone. In fact, he accidentally blurted out that Giulia was held hostage at an Italian bank at the corner of King William Street assuming I already knew everything. Then he hung up hurriedly, so it was clear that there was a massive problem at this address. We came as soon as possible."
"Impeccable timing, Inspector," Sherlock stands up to shake his hand, and Greg reciprocates the handshake, surprised by his unexpected kind words. That must be the first (and possibly last) time Sherlock compliments him. Is that a side effect of a near-death experience?
"You!" John angry voice echoes behind his back. Sherlock turns around to face him, "Save your breath. I already know all your frankly wide vocabulary of insults."
"You've been so stupidly reckless," the doctor bursts out.
"All in all, that's actually one of the nicest things you've ever said to me," Sherlock sarcastically points out.
"Why did you lie to me?"
"I did it for your own..."
"Don't even start," John cuts him short lifting a hand in front of his face. "It was not to protect me; I can perfectly look after myself. And don't you dare say that you did it for Giulia since you almost got her killed."
Sherlock bites his lip and awkwardly clears his throat, "I may have made a miscalculation and underestimated my opponent."
"Or rather, you overestimated yourself. You're such a show-off."
"I simply thought the whole situation was my fault and I wanted to set things right," he candidly admits renouncing witty comebacks.
John stares into his eyes. He is not lying: that's his plain truth. He wasn't trying to play the part of the hero. He really felt somehow responsible for Giulia and what was happening to her. But it's Sherlock: why would he care?
"Yeah, well, don't do it again," the doctor almost pleads him.
"Promise," he jokingly lays a hand on his heart and smirks. "I know that the soldier in you hates to miss all the action."
"You idiot," John mutters under his breath walking away with a faint smile.
Sherlock smiles back, then turns around in time to see a shadow approaching the scene. When he finally focuses on the silhouette, he grimaces perplexed. That's the last man he expected to see there at that moment.
"Mycroft, what the hell are you doing here?" he exclaims when he sees his brother walking inside the bank.
The eldest Holmes stops in the middle of the room and casually leans against his umbrella grimacing, "This isn't the warm reception I was expecting to receive."
"Pardon me, nobody told me I was part of the welcoming committee," Sherlock snaps back.
Mycroft glowers at him, then the corners of his mouth bend in a grin, "Oh, I see why you are so angry to see me. You are disappointed that I am not dead."
"Disappointed that I won't get the whole of our parents' inheritance? Maybe. But I'd rather say surprised. What happened, or rather, what stopped a catastrophic event from happening at the Parliament?"
"It was me, of course," Mycroft states proudly indulging in a moment of self-appreciation. "During our call, I told you that I had doubts and suspicions about a delicate business, and I am quite positive now you know what I was talking about," he hints at the political meeting at the British Parliament, and Sherlock silently nods letting him continue. "I could feel that something wasn't right, so I intensified the level of security. I made my agents search everywhere for the slightest threat until they found a bomb hidden in the security control room. It was promptly disposed of, and nobody in the building got hurt. As to how that device ended up there, it is still a mystery that I hope our American spy will unravel soon," he stares ominously at the man who is handcuffed and driven away in the police cars.
"The security control room? Ironic and quite impressive. How can a single man arrange all that?" Sherlock protests.
Mycroft shakes his head slowly, "He can't. I am inclined to believe that he is part of an organisation or a criminal network. Needless to say, you should tread carefully."
His younger brother rolls up his eyes and changes the subject, "You still haven't replied to my first question: what are you doing here?"
The eldest Holmes casually loosens the knot in his tie, his face visibly stressed after the long, intense day. "Checking on my little brother, of course. My employees kept me updated on your movements. When I got wind that the police were coming here, I came too. I constantly worry about you, brother dear."
"You're lying," Sherlock snorts straight away. "This is precisely the second time you've shown up on a case in which Giulia is directly involved. I would call it a coincidence, but I know all too well what you think of coincidences... Moreover, that spy was not only a mediocre criminal but also a blabbermouth. He said that you secretly meet Giulia on a weekly basis to exchange information. What's happening here, brother mine?"
Mycroft recoils at that mention and eagerly retorts, "None of your business."
"She lives under my roof; it is my business, indeed. I want the truth, Mycroft," Sherlock acts up.
"And you'll have it... but not from me. She will tell you everything when she's ready. For the moment, just know that it is a matter of her past."
"I know from personal experience that the past will always come back to haunt everyone, sooner or later," he thoughtfully affirms looking around the bank. A case that he thought he closed ten years ago almost ruined his present and compromised his future. Demons, ghosts, shadows... whatever we leave behind without a direct confrontation are never really gone: it all dwells silently in the shadows until it surfaces back again.
"This time it's different," Mycroft objects stealing a glance at the girl. A team of paramedics called there by the police is checking her conditions.
"How?"
"She is haunting it," Mycroft allusively replies, then clears his throat, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to ask about Giulia's health status," and with that, he walks away swinging his umbrella in the air. As he comes near the girl, he gently places a hand on her shoulder startling her and making her jump in her seat.
"It's just me. I am sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," he murmurs in a tone slightly softer than his usual icy arrogance.
She lifts her gaze on him and shakes her head trying to get rid of the sudden fright. "Hello, Mycroft. Sorry, I reacted like that. I might be a bit oversensitive right now."
"It's perfectly understandable. Are you alright?"
"I'm alive; that's a start."
"I'm here because I have sensitive information for you," he drops his voice to a whisper cutting to the chase.
She arches her brows, surprised, and mumbles, "I thought you'd prefer to meet in less crowded places," she hints at the bunch of people that know them both. Although, in fairness, nobody is paying attention to them.
"Now that Sherlock has found out about our meetings, I'm certain he won't give you a break: he will follow you everywhere. Honestly, it's been a rough day, and I haven't the resources or the strength to go play hide-and-seek with my brother. So, please, just do me a favour and try to gesture widely while you talk so as to give the impression that you're describing what just happened to you."
"Got it," she begins to emphasise every word with movements of her hands. "I am all ears now: what did you find?"
"We think that the person we suspect to be behind the events that destroyed your life last year is currently in London. I cannot give you further details at the moment: verifications are still ongoing. It's a little more than whispers, but it's enough for me to believe it is no longer safe for you to stay here. You should start thinking about a new city."
She holds his gaze, "No. I came here to have answers and some closure, and I have every intention to get to the bottom of my story."
He can read a fierce determination in her eyes, so he simply nods. "Fine, but please allow me to put a personal security detail on you. I used to think that my brother was the most dangerous threat in Baker Street, but after the events of today, I realised that far worse evils await in the darkness."
"I don't want a security detail. But if it makes you feel better, I'd say that just one man will be enough," she concedes: she is fairly certain that Mycroft Holmes is not very used to take no for an answer, and she will be no exception.
"Deal. From now on, you'll have a guardian angel," Mycroft approves jotting down some notes on his agenda.
"Sounds perfect to me. Go get some rest now; you look like you need it," she smiles feebly at him noticing the dark circles under his eyes.
He raises his head imperiously regaining his composure, "Good night, Ms Giulia. Take care of yourself."